Witness of Gor Read Online Free PDF

given the length of chain that joined my metal wristlets. I could feel the links of the chain deeply in my flesh. I forced my knees as far apart as I could manage.
    "Good," said the man, and continued on, down the line.
    In time it seemed that we were all in the position desired.
    Again the voices spoke, in diverse languages. In my own language, I heard, "Your heads are bowed in submission. Your bellies are under the chain.”
    I did not raise my head, of course. I had not been given permission to do so. I looked down.
    The chain was tight against my waist. There were even marks of the links there. My belly, I had been told, was beneath the chain. What could that possibly mean? We were left there for a time, in that fashion, kneeling, unattended to, our necks fastened together by the chain.
    The men had withdrawn somewhat, I would guess to the end of the line.
    Their voices now came from behind me. They sounded as though they were several yards away. Perhaps they were at the end of the hall. I could hear them conversing, in their own language, whatever it might be, that language I could not place, that language which seemed so unfamiliar as a whole, and yet in which I detected, or seemed to detect, from time to time, like an image suddenly springing into focus, a familiar sound, perhaps even a word I knew.
    I knelt as I had been positioned, my head down, the chain pulled back taut, at my waist.
    This rounded, and emphasized, my belly. It called attention to it.
    There was my belly, with its rounded softness, and, over it, the chain, its links now warmed by my own flesh, but still, though flesh-warmed links of steel, inflexible and merciless. My belly, I had been informed, was beneath the chain.
    I did not dare to move.
    What did it mean, that my belly was beneath the chain? I would later become extremely familiar with such positions, but they were, at the time, quite new to me, and somewhat frightening. What most frightened me about them was the way they made me feel. It was not merely that, in them, I felt profoundly stirred. In them, helplessly, vulnerably, I also sensed a personal rightness. I knew that in some sense I belonged in them. This was in contradiction to my entire upbringing, background, education, and conditioning. Could such things have been wrong? Let us return to the position which had been dictated to us, there in the corridor. It was, of course, a lovely one. There is no doubt about that. But you must understand that much more was involved here. It was not merely that the line of us, the fifty of us, or so, were well revealed in this position, excellently and uncompromisingly exhibited, but there was involved here more profound meaningfulnesses. Let us consider merely two or three aspects of the position. That our shoulders must be well back accentuates, of course, our figure.
    This calls to our attention, and to that of others, our unique, special and beautiful nature, that it is not to be hidden, or denied, or betrayed, but openly acknowledged, even celebrated. We must be, unapologetically, what we are. The symbolism of kneeling, itself, is doubtless obvious.
    So, too, perhaps, at least upon reflection, may be the symbolism of the opening of our knees, and what it tells about what we are. But I was not fully aware of this at the time. I was aware only that I felt terribly vulnerable. This makes clear our vulnerability. My own thighs felt inflamed at this exposure.
    Had someone so much as touched me with the tip of his finger I think I might have screamed.
    But there are various positions, kneeling and otherwise, and each has many significances.
    Why were we now kneeling here, unattended to? Had we been forgotten.
    Must we wait, as though we might be nothing? I could hear the men speaking. Were they discussing us? Were they commenting on us? Might I, or some of the others, be being spoken of, in particular? Were they consulting records, were they checking off items on a list, or perhaps making entries? We